


Rescuing Chip

by DarcyFarrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Belle's alive and well and owns a bookstore, Humor, Regina prank calls Gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:29:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyFarrow/pseuds/DarcyFarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day before the savior arrives, Gold sells the tea set.  One day later, he's desperate to get it back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rescuing Chip

October 22, 2011

Mr. Gold leans on his glass display case and idly flips another page of Sunset on the Plains, a musty paperback he swiped, along with a half-dozen others, from the library last Sunday morning before sunrise. No one else, not even the mayor, has set foot in the library in as long as he can remember; he does, now and then when the town's asleep, so he can satisfy his guilty reading pleasures. With a reputation to preserve, he can't be caught buying pulp westerns alongside antiques guides in Belle's Books.

Though he's quite certain the owner would keep his secret, Belle's is a pretty popular place, frequented on weekends by members of the City Council and the Chamber of Commerce because frankly, with no movie theater, dance club or tv station in town, the book store is the closest thing to healthy family entertainment Storybrooke has. Ms. Belle, recognizing this, schedules pre-schooler story times on Saturday mornings, a teen reading club on Saturday afternoons and a storytelling circle for adults on Saturday evenings. Gold's heard about the circle: parents hire babysitters just so they can attend, it's that popular. Many of its regulars are apparently talented in the art, specializing in a genre: horror stories for Dr. Whale, bodice-rippers for Ruby Lucas, war stories for her granny, classic mythology for Ms. Blanchard, outdoor adventure tales for Sheriff Humbert. Somewhere between twenty-five to thirty people attend, most of them only as listeners, but avid listeners they are, and the Saturday night stories that they absorb become water-cooler talk on Mondays.

Gold's never attended one of these sessions, though he wishes he could. That reputation again.

Lately, according to rumor, something's changed. Ms. Belle, previously just an observer and tea-server during the storytelling sessions, has begun to contribute, after the other regulars have had their turn and the group has fallen quiet. The tales she tells are fantastical, full of magic and mystery, heroes and villains—except her knights' armor is tarnished, their blades dull and their wits dim; the villains are the most interesting feature. Strangely, Belle's stories somehow manage to give all her characters a happy ending; even more strangely, her audience loves this.

Lately, the listeners say, her stories have become lavishly detailed, so realistic in description as to cause some people to wonder if they're stories at all; maybe they're history.

Gold sure wishes he could hear some of those. People say the usually shy and withdrawn Ms. French loses herself in the telling, her eyes sparkling, her hands dancing, her body leaning into each sword thrust and horse gallop and dragon swoop. She lives through her characters, people say.

But he can't be out among the ordinary folk. He must remain the town mystery, because if he sat beside them in the story circle, if he dined beside them at Granny's, if he waited on line beside them at the grocery, if he walked beside them in the park on mild evenings or sunbathed on the lakeshore with them on summer afternoons—if he gave them the chance to know him at all, they wouldn't fear him any more, and that would be bad for business. Worse, it would be bad for him. He might start to care, and if he did, the ones he cared for would use him, then leave him. Messy business, living.

So he doesn't go out among them. Instead he sneaks into a library in which no one's ever borrowed a book. Instead of listening to the Saturday night storytellers and the sparkling Ms. French, he goes home alone to a frozen dinner bought for him by his jack-of-all-trades, Mr. Dove (whose first name Gold doesn't know), and he turns on the radio to Storybrooke's only station (all Puccini, all the time) and he reads a western and goes to bed promptly at ten.

Today has been just like yesterday, which was just like the day before (Wednesday? Tuesday? He can't keep track). Accounts receivable, accounts payable. Repairs, dusting, inventory. No one comes to the shop except to pay rent or beg for an extension. Stuff coming in from Dove's excursions to estate sales and auctions. He leans on the counter to spare his ankle and he turns another page as he waits for six o'clock so he can go home.

Except today the service bell tinkles. He hides his western under his ledger and straightens his back and his tie. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon," his visitor replies softly. She's scared of him—good—but she's not behind in her rent and has never borrowed money from him, so he can afford to be less stiff with the elven schoolteacher.

"How may I help you, Ms. Blanchard?" He comes out from behind the counter but keeps his distance. She'll frighten easily.

"It's my birthday," she says, but with a small, uncertain frown, as though she's not sure. He understands (he'll never say that); lately little pieces of common information have slipped from his memory: his birthdate, the school he earned his law degree from, his father's name. Senior moments, he assures himself, but these slippages scare him.

"It's my birthday," she repeats, firmly now. "And since I don't have any family here" (he wonders what would happen if he asked if she has family anywhere) "I thought I'd buy myself a present."

Ah, a prospective sale. It won't be much—he knows her salary; he knows everyone's salary—but it's the thrill of the chase that counts. It would surprise her if he told her he doesn't care how little she spends; he has more money than he can use anyway. Oh, but he does love hunting down a deal, like a hunt master after a fox. "You've come to the right place. I have a wide selection, from baubles to one-of-a-kind treasures. What pleases you today, milady?"

Her dark eyes pass over the display cases.

"I have a pair of simple pearl earrings that your hair would set off nicely. Or perhaps a cameo brooch that would go well with the blue sweater you sometimes wear."

Her eyes light up as they settle on the bottom shelf of the case upon which his cash register rests (and gathers dust).

"Oh, the tea set." He rests his cane on the edge of the counter, leans on the glass with one hand to balance himself, and bends to slide the back panel open. Now comes the hard part: he has to release the counter and balance on his bad ankle in order to carry the tea set on its silver tray out from the display case. He succeeds, gritting his teeth behind closed lips. She doesn't notice his pain, or pretends not to. Gently he eases the tray and its delicate contents onto the countertop. "Royal Albert bone china." He runs a finger lightly over the teapot. "Hand painted; the symbol on the cups is the Ancient Caruvian mark for eternity. Painted in blue as it is, it represents eternal love; had it been painted in red, it would have symbolized eternal life; green would have represented eternal properity."

"Blue is the rarest," Ms. Blanchard says, stroking a cup with her finger. She's speaking so slowly and softly, it's as if she's half-asleep. "And the most powerful of the three."

"Yes." He wonders how she knows this. Must be all the books she reads from the bookstore.

"Edged in twenty-four carat gold—not enough to make a significant difference in the value. The rarity and age of the set are where its value derives."

"And its beauty."

"Yes, it is lovely." He allows her a moment to admire the set, picking up each cup, not to examine it but to appreciate it. She cradles them in both hands as if they are baby birds in the nest. Then she comes to the last cup and frowns, poking her finger into the breach in the cup's lip. "It's broken."

"Yes, a small chip. I thought to throw it out, but for some reason, I haven't. Either way, the set is imperfect. If not for this flaw, the set would be valued at three hundred. Damaged as it is, I'm asking thirty."

"I'll take it." Now she relaxes. The wallet comes out, two twenties are laid on the counter, the cash register rings and a ten is laid in her palm and he wraps the cups and pot in newspaper and sets them in a box. He ties it with a silver ribbon, "because it's your birthday."

"Thank you." She surrounds the box with her arms, he holds the door open for her, and she's gone.

He studies the empty space in the display case, wondering what will fit there.

October 23, 2011

"Emma."

His entire world changes the moment he hears the newcomer introduce herself to Mrs. Lucas. He takes the rolled-up bills from the inn keeper's trembling (with fear or anger? He usually enjoys wondering which, but not today. Today he barely notices) hand. He bids the stranger good day and calmly, coolly, in Mr. Gold fashion, he departs.

Then in the back alley, between the overfilled garbage cans, he laughs. He laughs until his belly aches and he has to bend over. He laughs til his throat burns. Bae, Bae is just, what? Weeks? Days? away from being recovered. Gold is just weeks or days from being forgiven and loved again. The last piece, the white Queen, has arrived, riding into town on her silly little yellow steed. She will fight the black Queen, slaying a dragon or two along the way, and she will win, breaking the curse, freeing the town, reuniting families, freeing Rumplestiltskin.

He could almost hug her in gratitude for all she is about to do.

Hugging. His head snaps up at the thought. Hugging reminds him of the only affectionate touches he's experienced since Bae left two hundred years ago, innocent little brushes of a hand against his, a playful hand on his chest when he'd made an awkward joke, an arm clutching his in a pretense of need as they walked through tangled woods, and sometimes, rarely, a hug, an outright display of friendship or something deeper.

And once, a kiss.

He gasps then, because he realizes she's here! Not dead, as Regina claimed—here, alive, as lively and sweet as before, and just steps away. He turns as hastily as he can with the help of his cane, bumping into a garbage can, knocking it over, spilling its contents. He runs, as best he can, onto Main Street. Two blocks south, on the east side of Main, his beloved waits for him.

But she doesn't know it yet. She doesn't know it and he can't change that. The magic that created this town and fogged their memories is more powerful than any he ever possessed, and right now, he possesses none at all. If he runs to her, if he flings open the door of her shop and shouts her name and runs to her and drops his cane to sweep her into his arms to finish their interrupted kiss of thirty years ago, he'll scare the living daylights out of her. She'll scream for the sheriff, have him jailed. Or, if the Belle he loves emerges from the cracked facade of shyness that the curse locked her beneath, she'll grab her Webster's Complete and whack him in the face with it—then call the sheriff.

He can't approach her yet. No matter how hard he loves her, he can't wake her. Only the savior can.

Weeks, then, or days. He can wait. But he'll be ready for her. When she comes to herself and he finally finishes that kiss, he will have gifts waiting for her, evidence that he's loved her all along, for even though he believed the Evil Queen's lies, he kept pieces of their life together: the blue dress he spun for her, her gold necklace he'd bought from an inn keeper who'd rented her a room for the night after she ran from the Dark Castle. . . and of course the chipped cup.

He lopes back to his shop, brushing stunned pedestrians off the sidewalk in his wake, but no one dares complain: it's rent day; don't call down his wrath. He locks the door behind him, flips the sign to "closed," rushes into the backroom for the treasures that something in him deeper than memory and so ingrained that the curse couldn't touch it has made him cling to. He finds the dress, not on the clothes rack with garments to be cleaned and sold, but in the highboy, wrapped in tissue paper, sachets tucked into its pockets. He holds it close to his chest for just a moment, pretending he can feel her warm skin beneath the linen, then he smooths out the wrinkles and lays the dress carefully into a proper garment box. He binds the box with gold ribbon and slips a paper rose beneath the bow.

He finds the necklace in a hidden drawer in a cabinet. That same something that compelled him to keep these treasures also compelled him to store them out of sight, so he wouldn't accidentally sell them. He polishes the necklace, using the moisture of his own breath and his silk handkerchief. Then he finds a diamond ring that he's displayed in his showroom (but of course, under the curse, no one could become engaged, so the ring never sold). He tosses the ring into a plain cardboard box and replaces it in the showcase. It's the ring's velvet-lined box he wants (when it comes time to give Belle a diamond, it won't be this one: it will be something truly special). He loops Belle's necklace into a circle in the velvet box. He locks these two gifts into the highboy where they'll be safe (because he remembers now there's a thief in this town, brought over by the curse, though he can't guess why Regina would have wanted him here. Just a weasely thing he is, a pickpocket and chicken picker from Sherwood, apparently untrainable even by the Prince of Thieves). And then Gold goes in search of the most important of his treasures—

He freezes in the center of the showroom. His gaze moves reluctantly from the empty bottom shelf of the display case to the cash register. Thirty dollars. He sold the symbol of their love for thirty dollars.

He raises his cane, ready to smash anything just to relieve the red-hot pain in his chest. Wait, wait. No need to despair. The schoolteacher (the outlaw princess) has the tea set. For her birthday, she had said; she wouldn't have given it to anyone. He'd dash over to her apartment, no doubt find the set, squeaky clean and smelling of lemon dish soap sitting on her drain board. He'll buy it back. Tell her he'd made a mistake in selling it. When she asks why he wants it back, he'll say that's his business; her business is to name a price. A free month's rent, maybe. A diamond ring. He'll even let her keep the unbroken cups and the teapot. All he wants is the chipped cup.

He's planning all this as he hobbles six blocks to her apartment, knocking other pedestrians aside—including a nun-fairy. How rude, other passersby must think as the nun teeters on the edge of the sidewalk. Good. Mr. Gold may be flawlessly polite, but he's a mean old nun-tipper.

Breathless (from worry over the cup, not the exertion), he thumps up three flights of stairs and raps at her door with his cane. She has a smile on her face as she pulls the door open. "Emma, did you decide—" Her question ends in a gulp.

"Hello, dearie. May I have a moment of your time?" He steps in before she can answer and scans her dining table—student essays she's grading, something about the life cycle of birds—her kitchen counter, her sink—and yes, exactly where he'd predicted it to be: the freshly washed tea set dries on her drain board. He releases a relieved sigh. Let the negotiations begin.

"I realized this morning that I'd made a mistake in selling you that tea set and I'd like to rectify it." He uses his cane to point toward the drain board.

"What?"

"I want to buy it back."

"Oh, well, I, I really do like that set—" She's flustered. He's caught her off-guard, and she's always nervous around him anyway. Good. This deal will go quickly.

He smiles, hobbling into her kitchen, uninvited. "I'm prepared to be generous."

"Oh." She draws her blue sweater close around her. "What do you mean, 'made a mis—'"

He's poking around the items on the drain board. "Where is it?" His teeth flash: he's trying to smile smoothly, as before, but he's angry now, or becoming so.

"It? I don't—what are you looking—"

"The chipped cup. It's not here." He thumps his cane against the floor to emphasize how important this is.

"The broken one?" She puzzles. "The rest of the set is there, if you really need it back. But the broken one—why would you want that? I tossed it out."

His mouth folds into a half-sneer, half-grimace as he spins around, in search of her trash can. "Where? Where is it?"

"I threw it out." She folds her arms. Interestingly, she's more puzzled than frightened by his behavior. Later, he'll wonder if her cursed facade is beginning to crack. Snow White never feared Rumplestiltskin.

He pokes around in her garbage can. "It's empty."

"Yeah. Trash pickup is Fridays at 7 a.m. Now if you don't mind, I need to get to school—"

"Where?" He's bellowing now. "Where did you take it?"

"The Dumpster. Behind the building." She follows him onto the landing and leans over the railing to call out, "But you won't find it there. I told you, pickup is at 7 and it's 7:50 now."

"Which way did they go?" He's on the ground floor now. All this yelling is bringing her neighbors to their doors, which they open just a crack. They want to watch the show going on in front of them, but they recognize his voice and will steer clear of him.

"I don't know. I never paid much attention," Ms. Blanchard explains.

One of her neighbors timidly points west. "The garbage truck goes that way. But it'll be miles away by now."

"What do I do?" There's such sadness in his voice that the neighbor stops fearing him and steps out on the porch beside him. "Your best bet is try to catch them at the landfill. They'll be arriving there about 8:00."

He nods curtly and hurries off to his shop. If he can catch the truck before it dumps its load. . . .Panting, he reaches his back alley, where his Cadillac is parked. He ignores the speed limits and the red lights, takes sharp turns round short cuts, and swings into the city dump just as the truck lifts its payload and releases it onto a previously existing mound.

He throws open the Caddy door. "Wait! Wait! I'll give you five hundred do-—". Then he moans as the truck's load comes crashing down.

The driver opens his door and cuts his engine. "What did you say, buddy?"

"Never mind." Gold slumps against his car. He yanks off his suit jacket, his tie and his shoes and rolls up his sleeves.

The driver approaches, then freezes when he recognizes the intruder. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Gold. What were you—". His voice trails off as Gold moves in dejected steps toward the trash heap. "Mr. Gold?"

Gold drops to his knees in the garbage.

"Mr. Gold? Are you okay?"

Gold plants his cane in the dirt and sinks his hands into the garbage.

The driver takes a hesitant step forward. "Mr. Gold, do you need help?"

Gold nods. "Five hundred dollars."

"What?"

"I'll give you everything in my wallet if you'll help me."

The driver reached for his phone. "Sure. You don't have to give me anything. I'll call an ambulance—"

Gold growls over his shoulder. "I'm not having a heart attack, you idiot. I'm looking for something thrown away by mistake. I'll give you five hundred dollars if you find it."

"Oh!" The driver runs to fetch a pitchfork—but not until he's snapped a few photos on his phone. The richest man in town, in a tailored suit, on his knees in muck. The Mirror will pay plenty for these photos.

May 13, 2012

"Oh, Rumple," Belle sighs, her eyes glistening. "You did all that for our cup? For me?"

In one hand she holds the chipped cup; in the other, a year-old newspaper clipping that Regina has mailed to her. "Digging for Gold," the caption beneath the embarrassing photo reads. There's a small accompanying article that estimates the Armani suit, valued at three grand without the jacket, was a total loss.

Rumple nods. He refrains from mentioning the worst part: every day since The Incident, Regina has phoned him at 7 a.m., imitated the grinding of gears, laughed, then hung up. She probably thinks he doesn't know it's her, but he has caller ID. He'll get his revenge someday, but right now, he has more important things to do. Emma's done her curse-breaking bit; now he has a son to find. But first:

He sinks to one knee, tosses the newspaper aside so he can hold her hand. "Belle, I'm going out there to search for Bae. I don't know how long it will take me, but I don't want to be apart from you one more minute. Will you come with me, travel the world, as my wife?"

"Rumple." She looks from him to the cup, then back to him. "Anyone who would go to so much trouble to rescue a teacup must truly love me. I'd be honored to marry you."

The next time the Mirror runs a photo of Gold, he's dressed in Armani, as usual, but he's holding a chipped teacup to his bride's lips as she sips champagne from it. Townsfolk find it puzzling that the richest couple in town would choose a broken cup to hold their wedding wine, and that the bride had chosen a plain linen dress in which to walk down the aisle. Not even Belle's father could explain it when the reporter interviewed him. He just shrugged and said, "That girl has been a wonderment to me all her life. But he makes her happy, and that's what matters, isn't it?"

Regina, when asked for a comment on the couple's decision to take an extended world cruise as their honeymoon, mysteriously muttered, "Well, now who am I going to prank call? Does anybody have Blue's number?"

August 15, 2031

"Dad, tell us the story—wait a minute, Josie, you're gonna love this story—how on a garbage man's salary you got the money to send me to Stanford?"


End file.
